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“Yeah, you say that, but one morning he’s gonna be here at seven and you’re not, and your wife is going to have to spend the rest of her life working with a micropenis when Cap cuts half of yours off.” I smirk. “And we know she’s already doing charity work at best.”
He makes a heart with his hands before flicking them up into two middle fingers. Dom and I have been working together for years now, so shit talk is practically a love language. It keeps our little bromance alive.
We both started out as street cops until we found our way to what we truly love to do—homicide—and have worked as partners pretty much ever since. It’s dirty, it’s stressful, and it takes some serious compartmentalization to handle the tragedy thrown our way, but it gives me a high unlike anything else.
Last week was a long one spent investigating a homicide that ended with a drug dealer taking a bullet between the eyes. We caught the killer, another drug dealer who didn’t like his competition, and the case is officially closed, but my desk is evidence of the grind.
“So,” Dom says, picking up one of my pens and twisting it around his fingers lazily while I slough stuff into my garbage can in an attempt to organize. “You and Officer Lindy, huh? Word around the bullpen is she left your place this morning wearing your UT hoodie.”
Officer Laura Lindy. Good aim. Great legs. Fun night, but probably a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea. But it is what it is. My life is one long pendulum swing between chasing killers on the job . . . and chasing women after hours.
“Interesting rumor.” I don’t humor him by looking up from the files on my desk. “Can’t confirm. Can’t deny. Though I have to say, gossip sure spreads fast here at the Metro PD Henhouse.”
He smirks. “You know, you’re going to run out of hoodies if you keep donating them to your overnight guests.”
“I’m very hospitable, Dom,” I say and flash a smirk in his direction. “You know that.”
Dom barks a laugh. “Yeah, you’re real generous. Saint Shane of Nashville.”
“You know, from what I recall, you used to be very generous to your overnight guests too.” I grin. “That is, until you met your wife on a phone sex case.”
“Hey, that was different.” He points at me, but his face shows no embarrassment. “Hannah wasn’t the suspect. She was the misunderstood innocent trying to pay her mom’s medical bills. And I got shot for her, thank you very much.”
“I remember. Fell in love, took a bullet, and became a suburban legend. The rest of us are just trying to live up to it now.”
“What can I say?” Dom grins and holds up his wedding ring finger toward me. “Romance is my specialty.”
“Was,” I correct. “You retired. Now you have a wife, two kids, a mortgage, and another baby on the way. Someone buys you a minivan and you’re basically a dad commercial now.”
He laughs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad. Just a little . . . tragic.”
“Tragic?”
“You used to bring the fun, man. Now it’s just me out here keeping Nashville interesting and running low on my hoodie supply because of it. I feel like I’m working overtime to make up for you not pulling your weight anymore.”
Dom cracks up. “Oh, so your hoodie situation is my problem.”
“Damn straight, it is,” I retort with a big grin. “If you wouldn’t have retired your undercover-lover badge, I wouldn’t have to carry the responsibility of keeping all the beautiful single ladies in Nashville entertained.”
His laugh is a rolling wave. “Wow. It truly is tragic, man. Tragic that you’re so fucking delusional.”
I wink at him. “Stop sweet-talking me, Dom. I’m trying to work here.”
“Work?” He snorts. “You’re pretending to work.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Watching you pretend to work while I wait for Cap to give me a clue why he dragged my ass out of bed so fucking early this morning.”
The bullpen hums around us—phones ringing, printers whirring, and cops laughing—but there’s no tension-filled air with kidnappings and dead bodies and drug arrests yet, and to be honest, it’s kind of putting me on edge. Usually, when the captain says he has something important to discuss, he grunts out Maddox a singular time and then fucking discusses it. No foreplay, no swirling finger to the metaphorical clit, no teasing grip on the metaphorical cock. Penetration, plain and simple. This morning, I’ve been here for over an hour, and I’ve yet to see his bald fucking head.
“I swear if he stands us up, I’m gonna—” The glass doors at the front of the station push open and in walk three men in suits, sealing my mouth shut in an instant and putting a look on my face that takes Dom’s boots to the ground and his eyes to the front along with mine.
Two of the new arrivals showcase FBI badges hanging over their crisp shirts, but the third doesn’t show anything at all, which somehow makes him the most suspicious of the bunch. He’s a part of the alphabet-soup brigade, though, I’m sure of it. You can tell a Fed from twenty yards out because they walk around with a government-grade stick up their ass.
“Well, well, well . . .” Dom whispers at their retreating backs as they file straight into Captain Leonard’s office like they’ve been here before. “Looks like Nashville is about to get interesting.”
